Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [179]
The conversation behind me had dropped to a confidential murmur. I stuck my head into the hall, but didn’t see a footman immediately. Still, one couldn’t be far away; a house of this size must have a staff numbering in the dozens. As large as it was, I would need directions in order to locate Alexander Randall. I chose a direction at random and walked along the hallway, looking for a servant of whom to inquire.
I saw a flicker of motion at the end of the hall, and called out. Whoever it was made no answer, but I heard a surreptitious scuttle of feet on polished boards.
That seemed curious behavior for a servant. I stopped at the end of the hall and looked around. Another hall extended at right angles to the one I stood in, lined on one side with doors, on the other with long windows that opened on the drive and the garden. Most of the doors were closed, but the one closest to me was slightly ajar.
Moving quietly, I stepped up to it and put my ear next to the paneling. Hearing nothing, I took hold of the handle and boldly pushed the door open.
“What in the name of God are you doing here?” I exclaimed in astonishment.
“Oh, you scared me! Gracious, I thought I was g-going to die.” Mary Hawkins pressed both hands against her bodice. Her face was blanched white, and her eyes dark and wide with terror.
“You’re not,” I said. “Unless your uncle finds out you’re here; then he’ll probably kill you. Or does he know?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t t-tell anyone. I took a public fiacre.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
She glanced around like a frightened rabbit looking for a bolthole, but failing to find one, instead drew herself up and tightened her jaw.
“I had to find Alex. I had to t-talk to him. To see if he—if he…” Her hands were wringing together, and I could see the effort it cost her to get the words out.
“Never mind,” I said, resigned. “I understand. Your uncle won’t, though, and neither will the Duke. His Grace doesn’t know you’re here, either?”
She shook her head, mute.
“All right,” I said, thinking. “Well, the first thing we must do is—”
“Madame? May I assist you?”
Mary started like a hare, and I felt my own heart leap uncomfortably into the back of my throat. Bloody footmen; never in the right place at the right time.
There was nothing to do now but brazen it out. I turned to the footman, who was standing stiff as a ramrod in the doorway, looking dignified and suspicious.
“Yes,” I said, with as much hauteur as I could summon on short notice. “Will you please tell Mr. Alexander Randall that he has visitors.”
“I regret that I cannot do so, Madame,” said the footman, with remote formality.
“And why not?” I demanded.
“Because, Madame,” he answered, “Mr. Alexander Randall is no longer in His Grace’s employ. He was dismissed.” The footman glanced at Mary, then lowered his nose an inch and unbent sufficiently to say, “I understand that Monsieur Randall has taken ship back to England.”
“No! He can’t be gone, he can’t!”
Mary darted toward the door, and nearly cannoned into Jamie as he entered. She drew up short with a startled gasp, and he stared at her in astonishment.
“What—” he began, then saw me behind her. “Oh, there ye are, Sassenach. I made an excuse to come and find ye—His Grace just told me that Alex Randall—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “He’s gone.”
“No!” Mary moaned. “No!” She darted toward the door, and was through it before either of us could stop her, her heels clattering on the polished parquet.
“Bloody fool!” I kicked off my own shoes, picked up my skirts, and whizzed after her. Stocking-footed, I was much faster than she in her high-heeled slippers. Maybe I could catch her before she ran into someone else and was caught, with the concomitant scandal that would involve.
I followed